


Chances Are

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gambling, John is a widower, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, casino - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8842777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: A mystery, a Christmas walk, and something Sherlock should've figured out much sooner. In the end, it's all up to him to take a chance and make the first move.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written for ancientreader/snarryfool as part of the Holmestice gift exchange 2016.
> 
> A huge thank you to Billythepoet for the super quick beta and the helpful suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine, of course. :)
> 
> Also, this is not Brit-picked. I will gladly make any changes if needed.
> 
>  
> 
> ***  
> ETA: Oh, cool! This story was translated in Russian by the lovely stupid_one. Link: https://ficbook.net/readfic/5505447

~~~***~~~

As soon as I walk into the casino, I’m bombarded by millions of stimuli—a buzzing, piercing, blinding cacophony of sounds, smells, and kinetics. The place is utterly repulsive—an indoor pyrotechnics money-trap for the desperate, disillusioned, and the mathematically inept.

Tension is pulling the muscles at the back of my neck and to make matters worst, Jingle Bell Rock ( _Lord help me_ ) has begun playing through the speakers just above my head. The security guard points towards the coat check area and I walk over there, annoyed. I concede that I will have to leave the Belstaff there since I cannot even make a charming smile (or charming pout) appear on my face to influence the hostess out of making me check my coat in. 

I glance at the hostess’s name tag: _Rebecca._ I could easily tell ‘Becky’ that I know about her stealing tips from her colleagues and that I also know she’s been sneaking out to smoke periodically but I cannot afford to alienate the staff here. See, no matter how I feel about this despicable place, the casino and I are not exactly strangers.

Gambling served a purpose in my college days (cocaine days). For someone like me—not only intelligent, but also a memory artist—the casino was an easy, convenient way to obtain money to purchase drugs. All I had to do was spend an efficient forty minutes in the early afternoon at the blackjack table, win the amount I needed, and walk out faster than if I’d made a trip to the cash machine.

I know Lestrade once secretly hypothesized that I had to be somehow using sex to sustain my drug habit. A somewhat simple (imbecilic) assumption… prostitution, really? Why would I use my body with a mind like mine? It was almost laughable how easy it was to trap people into betting. (How much cash did Sebastian lose that first semester? No wonder he was leery of my ‘tricks’ when we saw each other again a few years ago.)

I hand over my Belstaff to Rebecca the smoking-tip-stealer. She says thank you ‘Mr Holmes’ (She has recognized me, hard not to, I’ve been in the news a lot these past few years) and hands over a token. I wave at the security camera (in case they still report back to Mycroft), and make my way forward despite my repulsion for the place. I really want to leave, but I resist the urge to exit.

More apt, I let my urge to follow John Watson win.

I saw John enter through the front door a little over twenty-five minutes ago, and I was hoping he’d come to his senses and walk right back out once he set foot in this cesspool of human stupidity.

But apparently John _is_ being a little stupid himself… He’s been in here for a while now. It’s annoying. But I know something is bothering him. There’s something odd going on with John. I’m not sure if he’s hiding something or if he’s in pain. I need to find him before he loses too much money (which will do nothing to resolve whatever is going on with him).

I am slightly puzzled as to why he is acting off-kilter, and frankly, I am also a bit worried (and not only because the task of comforting him might be left up to me…) For all intents and purposes, John Watson should be happy. He has healed and recovered months ago from the tragedy that led to the death of Mary Morstan. I’ve observed him smiling spontaneously and walking upright with a gait that suggests contentment and lightheartedness. He has assisted me on cases, has laughed during danger, and has nagged me to eat and sleep. He’s watched YouTube videos of cats, and he has also watched a well diversified mix of porn videos. Plus, he has finally put the house in Kensington up for sale and is moving back into 221B. With me.

_I’ve missed you, John._

But I’m forced to acknowledge that an unknown variable has come and halted the forward momentum and John has regressed. John is suddenly very quiet and preoccupied. He avoids eye contact and is fidgety, _nervous_ , around me.

Why?

I can’t figure out what I might’ve done (well, there _is_ something I did; the meth, three weeks ago— _ **for a case**_ —but I’m absolutely certain John doesn’t know that. It’s something else).

I’m on a quest to gather more data as to what has caused John to regress. I’ve narrowed it down to two hypotheses, though I am leaning towards the second one.

My first hypothesis is that he has somehow developed a gambling problem. However, I have not seen any obvious evidence of such a thing happening. There has been no increase in the frequency in which he uses his bank card to withdraw money, and he has not borrowed any. I’d be immensely surprised if he were stealing from someone.

Though, that being said, I can’t rule out an online addiction. He does like his football an awful lot ( _Sherlock, I swear to God, if you fucking dare change the channel during this game, I will royally mess up the experiment that you have brewing on your counter…_ ) It hadn’t even been an important game, so perhaps he had such a strong interest because he had invested in the outcome? I doubt it. He feels that way about every football game on telly, it seems. But still, I can’t rule out the gambling. He is, after all in a _casino_ , in the middle of the afternoon on a work day.

My second hypothesis, and the more likely cause of his set back, is that he has met someone new (let’s call her X for now) and he’s feeling guilty around me because he is second-guessing his decision to move back in. But, again, I don’t have concrete evidence of this. Internally, it’s more of an intuition. Mycroft would call this emotional reasoning instead of logical reasoning. But I digress…

_Where_ is John?

I scan the main floor of the casino. It is littered with rows of slot machines and I know John has more sense than to try his luck with the coin-operated games. There’s absolutely no logic to them, no statistical analysis that can be used to hypothesize when the next big payout will occur. Why people think the large jackpot is just around the corner because it hasn’t paid out in a while is totally beyond me. I walk by a balding office worker who has been pulling on the machine’s arm for at least two hours straight. He has lost more money today that he has ever gained this year. I think a lab rat would’ve figured out by now that it’s just not worth it, and would’ve given up on pushing down the lever.

John will undoubtedly be at the blackjack tables, where the odds of winning are more elevated if the participants are of average intelligence.

I forge forward, looking straight ahead so the psychedelic pattern of the carpet doesn’t give me a seizure. I (unfortunately) catch a faint urine odour and can discern an elderly couple tucked away in the corner. They have been sitting side by side for the past six hours, trying to win their money back from their ‘favourite’ machines, hoping their luck is about to change.

Maybe my parent’s line dancing is not so embarrassing after all, I think. The Mycroft in my head rolls his eyes and says ‘ _The line dancing will always remain ignominious, Sherlock._ ’ I concede him the point. It’s much easier to do when it’s imaginary Mycroft.

I turn the corner and finally I find John sitting on a high stool at the roulette table (the game with the absolute worst odds of winning if you are betting on the numbers straight-up). He has a small pile of light green chips (worth two pounds each) and I estimate he has already lost over one hundred pounds in the twenty minutes I waited for him to come to his senses. I should’ve intervened sooner. _Idiot._

John is clearly in worse shape than I imagined. Maybe hypothesis one is valid after all. I have no choice but to step in before he loses more chips. John won’t be pleased to see me. He’ll be humiliated and angry at me even though I technically didn’t do anything wrong (this time).

I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

I approach and say, “John”.

Much to my surprise, John’s face lights up and he gives me one of his potent smiles that makes my stomach swirl. I stare at him, I can’t help it, he’s caught me off-guard. I really thought he’d be upset that I followed him here.

“Sherlock!” he says, like he hasn’t seen me in ages (it hasn’t been ages; merely two days, six hours, and eleven minutes). “You still follow me,” he adds with a note of wonderment in his voice.

I resist smiling back. “Apparently, I need to in order to save you from the incredibly idiotic decisions you make.”

He chuckles. I wish he would stop doing that. I was prepared for a confrontation, _not_ crinkles around the eyes and awe in his voice. I need to re-calibrate my expectations with his mood so I don’t let anything slip. 

“It’s just a bit of entertainment!” exclaims John, happily. This tells me that I can probably rule out a gambling problem. He would definitely be on the defensive if that were the case. There would be shame and guilt in his tone. And he would be angry to be caught in the act.

But still, I have to get him out of here soon. “John, don’t be stupid, you do not feel entertained when you lose money, trust me.”

He shrugs, amused. “Maybe. But I’ve gone this far, I might as well try to win some of it back, right?”

_Wrong._

He looks at me. “Here, your birthday is on the sixth, isn’t?”

I watch in horror as John reaches out to place his remaining pile of chips straight up on that particular number. As if my birthday as any more chance of winning than the other thirty-six numbers on the wheel.

I grab his wrist. “No, let me.”

“Okay,” he says, and drops the chips (seventy pounds worth) in my palm.  
I have a bit of a non-statistical strategy coming together in my mind. I look at the last four winning numbers shown on the roulette display board adjacent to the table. I work out a pattern based not on probability but on biomechanics. 

The croupier spins the wheel with the same force every time. It’s a monotonous job, and unconsciously muscle memory takes over the spinning motion his hand makes. I can predict with fair accuracy in which quadrant of the wheel the ball will fall in. I quickly place nine of John’s chips on the nine numbers in that particular section of the wheel.

The croupier waves a bored hand over the table. “No more bets,” he says in a monotone voice.

John watches the ball spin, and I watch John. I can tell he has not been drinking and that he hasn’t skipped work. He already had the afternoon off. Yes, he has his eye on someone. He has also shaved just before coming here. It’s a very close shave. His cheek is practically shiny from being so smooth. Oh, and he’s wearing the cologne. The one I like. Definitely dressed for a date.

My eyes return to the roulette game. There are four other participants playing and they are all holding their breath (and pretending not to) as the ball begins to lose inertia. As inferred, the ball skips and stops in the general section I had predicted. John wins thirty-five times his bet. He looks at me with utter amazement, like I’ve pulled a rabbit out of a hat (which, incidentally, I can do—it’s a very simple trick).

John beams like a photon of light when the croupier counts a large pile of chips and pushes it towards him.

“Keep going?” he asks me.

I would rather leave the premises immediately, but I think it’s important that John gets his money back or else he might delay moving back in for a few months if he is short on funds.

“Fine,” I say.

“Well, tell me where to put my bloody chips down, you brilliant wizard.”

I sigh and pretend this is a huge imposition on my time when in fact I’m a bit (a lot) pleased that I’ve impressed John Watson.

I look at the wheel. Again, I estimate which section the ball should land on based on previous spins. I tell John to place the chips on the following numbers 33, 1, 20, 14, 31, 9, which are all neighbours on the roulette wheel. We go through the whole ordeal of spinning and waiting (but I don’t really mind—this gives me time to observe John and gather more data). Once again, the ball lands in the right section (number 14) and John wins again.

In fact, in the space of five spins, John has won all of his money back and made over three hundred pounds.

John is happy and is now chatting with the woman next to him (a Canadian tourist who keeps apologizing for bumping his elbow every times she reaches over John to place her chips on the table). _How about apologizing for shoving your chest in his face?_ I think, annoyed.

The Canadian tourist casts a quick glance at his left hand. Of course, she sees no ring, and says, “Aren’t you lucky tonight!”

Internally, I groan at the atrocious pick-up line. John frowns at me. I might’ve groaned out loud.

But I’m absolutely certain that John is not interested. If he is indeed wishing to get involved with someone (hypothesis 2), it won’t be with a tourist.

That being said, I might be wrong for when I observe John’s micro-facial expressions closely, I note that his eyes are shiny, his smile is slanted adorably, and his head is tilted just so (exactly like when he is flirting). If the next thing John says to the tourist is funny and charming, then maybe he is looking for a one-night stand after all. I ignore the feeling of small needles jabbing at my heart. 

But surprisingly, what comes out of John’s mouth is not a flirty response to the Canadian’s pick-up line. In fact his response to her is all about me ( _I wasn’t too lucky before **Sherlock** showed up. It’s all Sherlock’s doing! Have you ever heard of him over in Canada? He’s a genius. This man right here is amazing. Utterly mind-blowing the stuff he can deduce. There’s nothing he can’t do. He’s even cracked the roulette code. I just put the chips where he tells me to. Seriously, have you not heard of him?_ )

But how can he possibly be interested in her if he won’t stop focusing on _me?_ This just goes to show that I know a grand total of nothing about the foggy world of flirting.

John wins again. The floor manager comes over to our table, gives me a suspicious look, and substitutes the croupier.

I say, “Let’s go.” I can’t be bothered to study the biomechanics of the newly substituted dealer, and besides, it’s not a good idea to get John addicted to the feel-good chemicals associated with winning. I don’t particularly want to rescue him once a month from this establishment.

He cashes out, and tries to give me his winnings. I wave it aside and he rolls his eyes at me. (Which I secretly don’t mind at all.)

“C’mon Sherlock, you did all the work.”

“It’s yours. You can use it to pay a moving truck. That way I won’t have to help.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, right. As if you were going to help,” he says. He opens his wallet and places the thick pile of bills inside. I notice that the leather on the outside of his wallet has reshaped into a 3cm diameter circle. I conclude that has a condom in there. The odds of hypothesis 2 being correct have dramatically increased. He is looking for coitus tonight.

We both retrieve our jackets from the coat check (actually, John retrieves both our jackets while I pretend to take a call).

We exit the casino and there’s an instant relief from the cacophony. I’m obviously ready to return home and John is obviously not. John looks happy but still fidgety. I can only deduce that he is meeting someone he already knows. He is not depressed or regressing. A bit sad, yes. But I think he is just nervous about introducing _me_ to this new person. _Why? Are you scared she’s going to shoot me?_

Well, contrary to popular belief, I do not care if John Watson begins a new relationship. He can call X as soon as I turn my back to call a cab. He’s probably meeting her for dinner. A nice restaurant. I recall he’s wearing a new black shirt; snug, unbuttoned, forming an attractive V. Black trousers, black belt, black dating shoes (an upgrade from the brown loafers from five years ago).

John looks good.

But, as always with John Watson, it’s not really what he’s wearing, is it?

He’s got a smile worthy of a five star rating.

He’ll have no problems achieving his goal tonight. Evolutionary speaking, I believe he is the perfect candidate for any female looking for a long-term relationship. Not only is he handsome, he is also regarded as a “catch” due to his medical profession. A good provider.

Hypothesis 2 becomes my working theory and I now switch my focus on who person X is. I immediately scroll through my mind the list of people he already knows, before adding new members to the list.

Could X be Molly Hooper? Not likely. Too many ties to what happened with John’s family. Plus, John wouldn’t want to be involved with an alcoholic. I cross her off the list. Sad, I like Molly.

Sarah Sawyer? Apart from the fact that she would probably rather relocate to Mars than attempt another romantic liaison with John, she is simply not his type. I remove Sarah off the list too.

What about Sally or Jeanine? No. I’ve never observed any signs of interest in either direction from either party. John wouldn’t want anything to do with the police and even less to do with a former acquaintance of Mary’s. And myself, I suppose.

Anthea? Nope. John would rather become a monk than become involved with anyone working in close proximity to my brother.

I put Mrs Hudson on the list on principle. I know imaginary Mycroft’s long nose would wrinkle in disapproval if I ruled out someone simply based on age. But, since I know for a fact that John considers her a mother, I can immediately cross her off the list again.

I make quick slashes through the name of every nurse at John’s work. They are all married with young children. John wouldn’t be interested in an affair, plus the reminder of a little one would be too painful at this point.

This leaves me with the two office workers at the surgery: Diana (or is it Danika?) and Stephanie. While Stephanie would certainly be interested, John finds her extremely annoying ( _Sherlock, she likes to hear herself talk, and all her opinions are based on fucking Facebook surveys. Sometimes I wish I could mute people just like you do._ ) I happily cross-off Stephanie’s name in John’s stead.

Diana/Danika remains. I just don’t have enough data either way to make a decision.

So, that’s basically it for friends and colleagues…

Immediately, imaginary Mycroft raises an eyebrow “ _That’s not quite true is it, dear brother?”_

Reluctantly, I scribble James Sholto’s name on the list. I know it’s impossible but I just want to prove to Mycroft (to myself) that _I. Don’t. Care._ Anyway, Sholto highly unlikely. John is not gay and he hasn’t talked to Sholto ever since he found out what really happened with the recruits.

In fact, I decide I don’t really care about who exactly John is meeting tonight. I’m fine with knowing that he is okay, not depressed again, and that he merely has first date jitters after such a long hiatus.

I say goodbye to John and raise my hand when I see a taxi coming down the street.

“Wait!” says John. “Dinner?” he asks, his eyes full of hope. “It’s the least I can do.”

I am not remotely hungry. “It’s only four, John.”

Also, earlier, I had an idea regarding a blood analysis experiment and I’d like to go home and test it. And even though I’d like to stay with John, the tantalizing appeal of the Eureka moment beckons me. We’ll both be getting our high this evening, but from different sources.

“There’s something I’m working on,” I explain. My voice sounds genuinely sorry. That might be because I probably am. I do like to spend time with John.

“Oh, okay, then,” he says. He is dejected.

Was it rude of me? I thought he’d be relieved to get rid of me to pursue some simple pleasures now that he is ready.

But perhaps John would rather join me? He likes to watch me work. And, as I recall, the high of an epiphany is so much sweeter when John is around to witness it. Also, I might glean a bit more information as to who person X is (apparently, I do care minutely).

I invite him. “Do you want to join me? I’m working on a blood analysis.”

He looks down at his feet and purses his lips. It seems to be a most difficult decision for him. I don’t see why. Surely he knows I won’t be offended?

Finally, he answers me. “Okay.”

I am surprised that my company can still trump a sexual encounter. Doesn’t he know he’s decreasing his odds of success by following me? I suppose he can always have intercourse after he visits 221B. I rule out Diana/Danika from the front office because she is extremely punctual and wouldn’t appreciate John re-scheduling their date because he’s watching me work.

X is someone else. Could be anyone really; the woman he chatted with at the bus stop last week, the grocery lady who suggested a wine to go with the Alfredo sauce he purchased, or even the widow he met at the graveyard last week. Who knows? 

Suddenly, my stomach growls a bit. I should probably eat. And if I’m going to eat, there’s no one else in this world I would enjoy doing it with more than John Watson. I have no food in the flat.

“Actually John, let’s go have dinner. You do owe me after all.”

John laughs. Actually, it’s more like a giggle. A small dimple appears on the side of his mouth. The sight of it is pleasing to me. Rewarding.

I smile back and John looks down at his feet again, still smiling. I’m not sure about this new habit of staring at his shoes, but I shouldn’t begrudge him too much as I notice I’m also staring at mine.

 

~~~***~~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://postimages.org/)

~~~***~~~

 

We have an early dinner at a small Italian restaurant that is over-decorated in a winter wonderland theme. A waitress (I deduce she’s the owner) comes over to seemingly take our order, but instead ends up talking ad nauseum about her blue Christmas theme light. “Well, I said to Sylvio, let’s be different. What’s the sense of being like everyone else, and then I sent Sylvio to blah, blah, blah, blah,” I tune out for a while and I watch John instead as he politely tries not to laugh at the woman’s boringly detailed story.

She finally finishes her long-winded contestation of red, white and green lights, and turns to John. “What do you think?”

“I think I’d like to order some food,” John says. “But if you have something blue on the menu, I’ll certainly choose that.”

She laughs and laughs, totally charmed by John’s wit. It’s not that funny, but regardless, I find myself smiling too.

We eat a bit of pasta: Penne with sundried tomato sauce for John, and spaghettini Al pomodoro for me. I note he’s chosen something with no garlic, which he usually loves. This is further evidence that he’s meeting person X tonight.

Neither of us finishes eating our dish, but when the owner comes back, I order a slice of blueberry pie for us to share. She doesn’t clue in, but John does, and his eyes sparkle with humour.

After we’ve eaten the pie, John pays, and we leave the Italian winter wonderland kingdom behind.

Outside, we are once again reunited with red, white, and green lights. John leads me to the Thames along the Queen’s walk where we find the Southbank Christmas Market.

There are about one hundred wooden chalet-style stalls selling holiday foods, drinks, and gifts. John seems to enjoy the atmosphere for what it is.

We walk by a booth that sells Christmas baubles and one catches John’s eye. We stop and John reaches for an ornament that has a hand painted bloodhound on it. “Perfect for our tree!”

Then he drags me into to a different stall where he convinces me to shop for Mrs Hudson. “It’ll be over and done with,” he says. 

 

I’m fine with the idea as long as he chooses the gift and he does just that. “Just remind me to give it to her,” I say absentmindedly when he hands me a… whatever… in a gift bag.

The temperature is now starting to dip and the tips of John’s ears are red. The hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping is now in full swing. We purchase large steaming cups of mulled wine and find a bench away from the crowd to sit on.

John takes a long sip of his drink before speaking again. “This is nice, hmm? You have to admit there’s something special about the season, no?”

I sigh. “No John, there’s nothing special about a multitude of people frantically buying useless gifts for undeserving family and friends in December. The only thing peaceful about the season is when it ends.” 

He gives me a look indicating he’s not buying it. “You like it,” he says.

Ironically fat, lazy snowflakes begin to fall as if trying to convince me that the holidays are indeed a magical time of the year. Thankfully, a husband and wife walk by us violently arguing about what to buy grandma this year. They are followed by a group of drunken government workers in ridiculous Santa Claus hats singing ‘ _Tis the Season to be Jolly…_ ”

I give John a pointed look and he merely laughs.

There are Christmas carolers up on a stage in the distance. They are dressed in Victorian gear and I am momentarily transported back to my drug induced self-hypnosis trip back into time and the case of _The Abominable Bride._ I am glad that this part of my life is over; the drugs, the insanity of Culverton Smith, the game of ‘Love’ with Moriarty and all of it’s consequences.

“What are you thinking about?” John asks.

I reply with a succinct version of the truth. “The past.”

John swallows. “Talking about the past... I never—” he pauses mid-sentence, as he so often does, and continues. “I never apologized—no, not apologized—more like acknowledged. Yeah, I never acknowledged your grief when…” he stops and takes a long sip of his steaming mulled wine, and turns to look at me square in the eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened with Greg Lestrade, Sherlock.”

_No. Stop. Don’t even start, please._

I want to prevent him from talking. I don’t need to hear this. I don’t _want_ to hear this. I should’ve gone home and worked on my blood assay. I can tell John is as uncomfortable with this as I am. I can only conclude that this ‘talk’ is probably John’s weekly therapy assignment from Ella Thompson. I can clearly imagine what was said during their last therapy session as if I’d been spying on them “ _Oh, before you move on with someone new, John, you should communicate your feelings about everything that happened so you can find closure.”_

I frown. “John, there’s no need—”

John ignores my scowl and continues. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to make sure you know that… that I know you considered him a friend too and that his deception must’ve hurt. I was too wrapped up in my own shit to notice your pain. In fact, I should’ve bloody realized years ago that something was fishy when you couldn’t even remember his first name.”

_I don’t care about that John. I really don’t. There’s nothing to apologize for. Greg’s involvement with the brotherhood is of no consequence to me._

John finally stops talking and finishes his drink. But apparently my ordeal is not over. He begins another painfully awkward speech about ‘regrets’ and ‘difficult circumstances’. I tune out for most of it and instead design in my mind a spreadsheet of every excuses I’ve used in the past to get out of attending Christmas dinner so I don’t accidently repeat one when I call my parents to inform them I will not be attending again this year. 

 

When my attention returns to John, he is in the process of apologizing to me. “And again, I’m sorry if I’ve ever taken you for granted or if I’ve ever made you feel bad for not understanding something in a social context.”

I want to tell him ‘there’s no need for this and that neither one of us is perfect’ but somehow I find myself unable to. Instead, I make a feeble joke. “And _I’m_ sorry the winter weather hasn’t frozen your lips together to prevent you from all this endless talking.” 

 

He sighs, and pats me on the knee. “Okay, okay, I’m done now.”

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers, I hope you enjoyed this short, Christmassy, chapter. :)
> 
> For those of you who were wondering about the Lestrade backstory in this chapter, here's my reasoning behind it. My apologies for not elaborating within the story itself. This was a pinch-hit and I ran out of time. :D 
> 
> Okay, here's why I think there's something up with Lestrade: 
> 
> Reason #1:  
> I believe there's a reason why Sherlock cannot remember Lestrade's first name. Yes, the first time in THoB, it was funny but to have it happen repeatedly... something's up. It's a pattern; not a running gag.
> 
> Think about it...  
> Sherlock remembers Anderson's first name: Phillip.  
> He also remembers Molly's fiance's first name: Tom. 
> 
> There are two things that can cause name amnesia:  
> 1) Trauma : Something associated with the name becomes a mental block  
> 2) Hypnosis : Derren Brown explains it in his book ' _Tricks of the Mind_. He states that you can make someone forget a name (even your own) by simple hypnotic suggestion. (As an aside, Derren Brown also explains how he made two of his friends believe they had seen an elephant in a room in college. That's why I believe there might be an element hypnotic suggestion on the show. )
> 
> Anyway, the fact that Greg never gets mad when Sherlock forgets his name tells me it's probably #2.  
> Why would Sherlock be triggered to forget Lestrade's first name? I don't know, but it's fishy.
> 
> Reason #2: The Lying Detective could be about Lestrade. 
> 
> Reason #3: Holmes has a fallout with Scotland Yard in ACD canon. Actually, I think the last time Holmes talks to Lestrade is in _The Six Napoleons._
> 
> Regarding the "brotherhood": I was thinking that perhaps Mycroft is not referring to a _third_ Holmes brother when he says; "brotherly compassion". It could be a brotherhood like the "Illuminati" (which mentions brotherly compassion as one of its goals). 
> 
> Anyway, we'll see! I'm just having some fun with theories. You can follow me on Tumblr for more: (I'll add the link once the reveal is up).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://postimages.org/)

~~~***~~~

 

We leave the market area behind and walk east towards the city centre. John suddenly stops in front of the luxurious Mondrian hotel and announces. “I have a room here for tonight. I used a gift certificate I won in a hospital fundraiser last year. ”

I am mildly surprised that he has chosen this use up his expensive certificate for his tryst tonight. It’s my cue to go, and once again, I turn to flag down a cab.

“Wait!” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and adds, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

My mind misfires different interpretations of what he might mean by that (apart from the obvious). I am not often surprised by John’s actions and words. He is for the most part quite transparent to me. I have no idea what he is doing. Imaginary Mycroft rolls his eyes at me.

The logical side of my brain is reviewing all the data and spewing out the obvious conclusion _‘I’m person X.’_ The emotional side of my brain is fiercely trying to refute the evidence. I can’t be X. It seems so impossible. I’m too male, too rude, too different.

“Well?” John inquires nervously.

“I’m not remotely thirsty,” I blurt out uselessly. Both sides of my brain groan in misery.

“I know, I know,” John says. “I’m not really asking for a drink. It’s just an expression. It means, er, it means I don’t really want us to go our separate ways right now.”

I know that (Really, I do!) I’m forced to accept that I’m X.

But why? Is John doing an experiment? Is this a trick? I’m missing something. John might want my company but I’d be very surprised if wanted me in that particular context.

It doesn’t add up. I’m missing something, I conclude once more.

Why is John seeking _my company_ when he clearly is ready to have sex again?

And why has he chosen a venue fit for a honeymoon night and---

_Oh._

_OH._

_I’ve been a blind idiot._

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

How did I manage to misinterpret all the signs? John sad and off-kilter. John pre-occupied and fidgety.

I promptly remove myself from the list. Of course, I’m not person X. Why would I be? Why would I be X on anyone’s list? ( _You’re a chore to be with, Sherlock. You’re hard on the head, Sherlock._ )

John had me tag along all day because he doesn’t want to be alone on the anniversary of the day he lost his family. And despite the fact that he has never forgiven Mary for all of her lies, the memories of how it all ended is still traumatic to him.

I remember how last year he spent the anniversary with me in Baker Street, completely intoxicated and inconsolable.

I suddenly panic when I realize that it’s up to me to console John again tonight. I’m not exactly what you would call the comforting type. ( _You’re the selfish type, Sherlock_ ). I don’t really want the task but the feeling passes quickly.

Of course, I am the perfect person to distract John on this day of memorial. And John does not want pity. He wants to take his mind off his past.

“Yes. I will come up with you—but no drinks.”

John seems both surprised and pleased. A warmth fills my belly at the thought that I’ve made him feel good.

We walk in, and John checks in. I check my phone. There is a message in my _Science of deduction_ inbox. I ignore it. I won’t abandon John tonight.

John returns, key in hand, and we walk to the elevator. We enter and he pushes on the number 8. I look at John in the mirror of the elevator and I am presented with multiple views of my friend.

He looks good.

His hair has grown out a bit (he’d gone back to short military style after the deaths of his wife ). He is due for a haircut. I like the colour and I would probably like the texture. It seems dense; coarse. I have a strong urge to touch it.

_Who cares, who cares…_ John’s hair doesn’t matter to me. Follicles. That’s all.

The rest of the ride up is normal. We continue different strands of different conversations that we both know where we’ve left off. John tells me that he is interested in taking a medical forensic course and what do I think of that?

Of course, I think any course is useless and that they are all imbeciles.

But I refrain from voicing my opinion as I in fact don’t know much about the content of the course. Also, John’s interest benefits me. I’m pleased that he’s interested in pursuing a field in medicine that is closely tied to the Work.

We arrive in front of room 832. John slides the key and opens the door to the room. It’s a nice room; a large suite with a small red sofa and French doors that open on to the bedroom. There are large panoramic windows overlooking the city.

John takes off his jacket and toes off his shoes. He gives me a small smile and walks to the window.

I take off my Belstaff, hang it up in the closet, and wonder what I’m supposed to do next. Part of me regrets figuring out John’s mood. It would be easier to just up and leave.

John is still looking at the view of the city, and I (ironically) get myself a bottle of water from the mini fridge. My throat is so dry.

“Do you need to talk about Mary?” I ask, taking advantage of the fact that he has his back to me.

He turns and gives me an odd look. “No, not really,” he says.

Oh, he probably already did when we were sitting on the bench earlier. Now it’s time for me to distract him, isn’t?

There’s not much in terms of distractions here. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

He grins. “Yes, sure, I’ll just use the loo first.”

When he returns, we both sit on the bed, legs stretched out, our backs leaning against the headboard, and our heads propped on several oversized pillows.

John turns on the TV. There’s a documentary about evergreen trees playing and the host of the show is discussing Christmas trees, needles, and photosynthesis. For some unknown reason, this is what we decide to watch instead of a movie.

Photosynthesis is fascinating chemistry and I find I’m enjoying myself even though the host is overly simplifying things

I’m secretly pleased that John is interested. “Christ, I memorized all this in uni but I never really understood the light reaction.”

“I’ll explain it to you if you want,” After all, there’s nothing like non-cyclic photophosphorylation to take your mind off things. (And I’m not even trying to be humourous, here.)

“Why not?” says John, amused. He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs the hotel stationary and a pen. “Let’s see if you can do a better job than Dr Garbary.”

He hands me sheet after sheet as I scribble out notes, explanations, and diagrams. He laughs as they spread and litter the surface of the bed around us.

He picks up one of the notes and frowns. “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

I huff impatiently and grab a different paper. “That’s the one you need to understand.” I toss it at him.

He takes it and tilts his head. “Is this supposed to be a plant?” He’s focusing on the irrelevant part. Annoying. (Charming.)

“It’s a sunflower. And this is a three dimensional sagittal view of a leaf,” I explain.

“Ha. You drew a flower for me. That’s so sweet.”

He looks at me and I feel heat creeping up the back of my neck.

“You know, I didn’t invite you here to teach me about photosynthesis,” John says, playful. There’s a light in his eyes. It makes me hopeful and at the same time it scares me.

“Why did you invite me then?” My question comes out anxious; breathless. (Pathetic.)

It takes a long time for John to reply.

He smiles. “Your company… nothing… this,” he says waving his hand to indicate the litter of notes on the bed.

His expression is odd. A mix of wistfulness and fondness. Yes, definitely fondness. But there’s also a hint of challenge in his eyes. My heart is beating very fast (as if John has slipped stimulant in my water). We stare at each other for a few interminable seconds until John unconsciously wets his bottom lip. 

Then it hits me and I can’t ignore the facts anymore. I’m in a hotel _room_ , sharing a _bed_ with John, and John is more than likely _flirting_ with me.

I _am_ X after all. 

I’m so ridiculously stupid that even imaginary Mycroft can’t be bothered to make an appearance.

John wants to have sex with me. There is a coiling warmth spreading through me, weakening my limbs and more worryingly; weakening my mind. I have no idea what to do with this information. I can’t think anymore. 

I stand abruptly and merely point to the bathroom. 

I enter the bathroom and lean against the (fake) marble vanity top. There is a small tube of toothpaste and John’s toothbrush is wet. There is a guest toothbrush on the counter.

I really need to think this through carefully. I wish I had my violin to help me process the multitude of emotions. I suppose hotels don’t provide guest violins, do they?

After everything John and I have been through, I never thought it would ever come down to this. I can admit to myself that I’ve pinned for him until it physically squeezed the lining of my stomach. And, of course, I love him, I think impatiently. And John loves me too. I know that.

But love does not necessarily equal sex.

But apparently, John does want me that way. I question his self-preservation instincts.

_Think, think, think…_

All evidence points in the direction that he has thought about this. This entire night (day!) was planned. In fact, he ‘s been romancing me all day.

But why a hotel? Why not just meet me in 221B?

Why not tell me I’m X?

Ha. He wants me to figure it out. He wants _me_ to make the first move. I could go home right now and pretend that I never caught on. John would then know I am not interested or extremely clueless and therefore not aware enough to be interested.

I shake my head in disbelief. How long has he been exploring if we can be more to each other? (Probably when he became nervous around me).

He must’ve had flares of attraction?

Is he confusing his intense admiration of me for lust?

The thought worries me. I don’t necessarily want _lust_. I don’t like to lose control of my body or my emotions.

I can understand losing control to drugs… but to another person? It feels unwise… unbearable. Terrifying.

Sadly, I must concede another point to Mycroft. Sex _does_ alarm me. Though, that being said, I am not a technically a virgin. (I take back the point.) 

I’ve witnessed Victor Trevor under me, in my hands and in my mouth, yet I have never, ever wished to be on the receiving end. To completely lose faculties—even for a few seconds of intense pleasure cascading down your neurological pathways—is not worth it.

It’s not that I physically _can’t._ I have urges. I’m flesh and bone. It’s just that I’ve always been able to repel any desires before they reached their targeted destination.

_Are you made out of Teflon, Sherlock?_ Victor had asked teasingly. Maybe in hindsight he had asked _sadly_ —I was not too good at catching nuances back then. (And apparently, I’m still not that gifted at it now). 

What if I can’t let go when I’m with John? Would I be making him sad too?

I develop different flow charts in my mind in order to speculate on different eventualities.

If I do not make a move at this junction and leave the hotel now, chances are John will still move in with me. But for how long? Until our old age? That would be my preferred outcome.

But chances are he will meet someone new and I will lose him again. Chances are that this new person (henceforth known as person Y) won’t be understanding of our unique friendship. And what are the chances that Person Y would accept me and let John solve cases with me? I calculate the odds and they are slim. It’s very likely that within a year from now, Y will be cozily snuggling up to John Watson, and _I_ will be cozily snuggling up to a cocktail of opioids.

John hasn’t moved back in yet, and the thought of him leaving again is unbearable.

I make my decision. John is definitely worth losing control for. I will have sex with him.

I reach for the guest toothbrush still wrapped in a clear protective plastic shield. I rip it open (will John deduce my decision from the brisk sound of plastic being crunched? Not likely.)

I use the hotel toothpaste and brush my teeth for a ridiculous amount of time. I would also like to wash my feet. I take a deep breath and push down my slight bout of OCD. There’s no need for me to scrub my feet clean. John does not care about Corynobacterium.

I jump in the shower. I can’t help it. John does not care about my eccentricities.

I come back into the room and John glances away from the TV to smile at me. Once again, it hits me just how disproportionately happy his pleased expression makes me.

He pats the bed, indicating that I am still welcomed to share the space with him. He begins to fill me in about something—the show—that I missed.

_I don’t care, John. I don’t care. I’m nervous._

I feel a sensation low in my lower abdomen. I don’t know why people refer to it as butterflies—it’s stupid. At least butterflies can fly away. But this is cortisol, and cortisol does not fly. It chokes you and squeezes your esophagus and it seems there’s nothing I can do about it except swallow a few times.

I sit on the bed stiffly and I am once again reminded just how much I dislike not being in control of my body.

But nothing happens. We just continue to talk about plant physiology and such. I begin to relax and John and I recapture the easy camaraderie from before. John doesn’t mention the shower. My hair is wet surely he has noticed?

Of course he has. I remind myself that he is letting me decide. Letting me make the first move…

We watch holiday special on TV. Even though our eyes are glued to the telly, I don’t think either of us is paying much attention to the show (something about the history of Saint Nicholas around the world).

I glance at him from the corner of my eye and he does the same thing. We turn away at the same time. Millions of seconds pass and still nothing is said.

At this point, I could turn on my side, and John might then do the same. We could find the right angle and we could kiss. It seems time is distilled down to this moment. The two of us lying on our backs until one of us turns. It’s like there is a large gap between us and neither one of us wants to get too close to the edge.

From my side of the bed, I turn and I look at John. He turns too, props his head on his hand, and looks at me. Am I communicating how I feel? This is a foreign language to me. My mother tongue is numbers and codes. But surely he would say something, maybe crack a joke, if that wasn’t the outcome he was gambling for?

I take a calming breath. I’m fairly certain that if I’ve miscalculated the situation, John will forgive me a kiss more easily than he would a suicide.

I reach across the abyss and my fingertips touch his face gently as if reading braille. I feel his pores, eyebrows, nose, and his lips. His eyes are fixed on me the entire time. I rise up on my elbow and l reach over and slide my hand in his hair (it’s soft, not coarse). I pull him towards me and I finally press my lips against his.

He lets me.

I kiss him again and then my lips are everywhere on his precious face. I move back to his mouth and trace his lips with my tongue. John shivers. He _likes_ it.

“I didn’t get it wrong,” I whisper into his mouth.

“You rarely do,” he replies. His cheeks are flushed, and his voice is breathless. He gathers me into his arms, and presses his face into my hair. “God Sherlock…” is all he says. I tuck myself snuggly against his chest and I let him hold me. 

There, in the crook of John’s arms, we finally talk. 

John gives a half-laugh. “Christ, I was nervous,” he says while playing with my hair.

I smile against his chest. “I noticed.”

“What took you so bloody long to figure it out?”

I feel my cheeks warm and I’m glad my face is cleverly hidden from him. “Romantic entanglements are an intricate puzzle to me,” I reply.

“It was a 3-piece puzzle, Sherlock,” he says, gently and plants a kiss on top of my head.. “This feels surreal… Being in a hotel with you like this.”

“Why didn’t we simply go to Baker Street?” I ask. “Wait, let me see if I can deduce it. ” The answer comes to me quickly as is usually the case.. “Neutral territory?”

“Yeah, something like that. I just thought that if things didn’t work out for us in that context… ” He stops, searching for the right words no doubt, and continues. “I just wanted to make sure there would be no awkward memories in our flat. I still want to live with you no matter what we are to each other, you know?”

Yes, I do know.

He drops another kiss on top of my head. “God, I can’t believe I’m finally holding you in my arms like this.”

“It’s nice,” I say. It’s more than nice. It’s paradise. Perhaps intercourse is not necessary, I could stay like this forever.

John swallows. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” he says. 

There’s something in his tone that makes me lift my head and look at him. Everything John is feeling is right there in his eyes--a hint of shyness, a touch of laughter, an abundance of affection, and a current of desire. 

_I_ swallow. “How so?” I ask, dropping my head on his chest once more. 

“How so?” he repeats. “I’ve never been with a man before, Sherlock, but Christ, I’ve thought about you in many, many ways,” he says, his voice husky.

There is a delicious static humming on the surface of my skin. I find myself wishing to touch his skin. It seems John has toned down my jitters and desire rises to the surface. I pull his shirt out of his trousers, and sneak my hand underneath. I explore his back and then his buttock.

“Are you sure, John?” I ask. It’s an incredibly clichéd question, I hope the sheer stupidity of it doesn’t summon Mycroft in my mind. ( _Oh, Sherlock, the man has been planning this for weeks, obviously, he’s sure._ )

John laughs, the sound rattling softly in my ear. “No,” he replies. “I’m not sure. Not at all. It’s a bit of a gamble. I don’t want to risk our friendship.”

John’s surprising admission dissipates _my_ doubts. I’m a much better gambler than John is. “Odds are we’ll be fine.”

“Well, come here then,” he says. I scuttle up his chest until we are face to face. He kisses me. My mouth opens and our tongues meet. The sensation is soft and silky like warm honey. I’m drowning in bliss and for once I’m not thinking about papillary tissue infused with amylase.

We are engulfed in slow, explorative, drugging kisses for a long time.

My desire to know is now a raging thirst. I kiss him with a fierce ruthlessness that surprises John. My lips are crazed and eager.

Eons ago, I accepted I longed for John. Now, I begin to feel a longing so strong, so desperate, I fear it will drive him away in its sheer intensity.

I kiss him deeply over and over until our bodies are tangled in the sheets, until it’s obvious John has made me a little demented.

I don’t hold back the flash flood of lust that gushes through me. It flows and pounds away at the walls of my blood vessels. I’m a little amazed—and more than a little embarrassed—at how aroused I am already. 

John, what are you doing to me?

When we both come up for air, John laughs. “Go figure,” he says out of breath. “Go bloody figure you’d be like a fucking volcano in bed.”

Somehow, in between manic bouts of kissing, we manage to undress each other until we are both naked in the middle of a nest of white sheets and oversized pillows. John gathers me in his arms and tells me I’m fucking beautiful.

He rolls on top of me (maybe to prevent me from floating away) and his knees anchor me down. John’s thighs are touching mine and our cocks are warm and hard pressed together between our bodies.

He slides down next to me and then his hand is around me, moving up and down my shaft in long, slow strokes. It seems my neurological process has been reduced to one functioning synapse that keeps firing the same message: _John._ I am now a one-celled organism; possibly an amoeba.

I’m drowning into the rhythm of his hand as random observations play hide and go seek with my consciousness.

_Love_  
_Warm_  
_John_  
_Heartbeat_  
_Humbled_

Static in my groin chases all thoughts away. I thrust in John’s fist, buzzing at the base of his hand. He leans his forehead on mine. Through the pulsing in my ears, I hear him murmur things like ‘ _Beautiful creature, I love you so much it scares me, Jesus look at you._ ’ Finally, I let go and I let him witness my free fall. A work of art made of stained glass shatters to pieces in my head and I climax in John’s fist and unto my stomach. I’m a blank slate smeared in breathtaking colours.

I come out of my fog and John is falling apart at his own hand, his face buried in my shoulder. I reach out and place my hand over his and I follow his rhythm, my thumb moving over the tip of his cock. “Yes,” he stutters, “God yes.” He comes fierce and hard on my groin. He is, by far, the most beautiful man alive.

After a while, John moves and gives me a tiny, bashful smile. “Well…” he says, his cheeks crimson. “Jackpot.”

I groan at his miserable attempt at gambling humour. He ruffles my hair and gathers me in his arms. We are curled around each other like cats. I keep still, enjoying the sensation of John’s body warm against mine until we both fall asleep.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Ten days later, we are getting ready to go to my parent’s house for Christmas dinner. John looks dashing in his new periwinkle shirt and charcoal suit. He is so handsome that I contemplate how long it would take to strip him naked, kiss him senseless, and have sex again in front of our fireplace before heading out.

It seems I have become quite fond of letting go.

But even if we had time I don’t think John would be overly interested. I have never seen him so nervous in my life. He is fidgety and a little short-tempered. He keeps rubbing the back of his neck, checking the time, and shaking his head briskly as if trying to keep negative thoughts at bay.

“What’s wrong, John?” I finally ask. It’s quite annoying to me to have him so jittery. “Is it something to do with my parents?” I prompt. It’s the only variable that makes sense. 

John closes his eyes and sighs, “Yeah.”

When he opens his eyes again, I fear he might cry but instead, he collects himself, and takes the bottle of wine that’s on the table and holds it up towards me.

“This doesn’t feel like it’s enough.. What do—What do I say to your parents Sherlock? ‘ _Hi, I know last time you invited me here, my wife had just shot your son because of me, and then your son drugged both of you because of me, and, as if that weren’t enough, your son also killed someone because of me… but anyway, here’s a nice bottle of Merlot to go with dinner. Don’t worry, I didn’t bring a loaded gun into your home this year. Peace on Earth and goodwill to all!’”_

I stare at John blankly. I have no idea what to do with this outpouring of complicated emotions. I’m not even sure why any of this matters. I want to tell him that I’ve done so many awful things in my past that my parents are quite used to it. But John looks so tense, so unhappy, and I sense that this is not what he wants to hear.

“I’m sorry,” I say because this seems to be the thing that works best when John is upset.

“No, Sherlock, it’s not you.” John puts the bottle back down on the table and sighs. “I don’t think you understand…” (I don’t) “But I really want your parents to _like_ me. Christ, I want your parents to know that _I_ would do anything for you as well. I want them to know how much you are loved and cherished and God— _God_ , I don’t want them to hate me because I plan on being with you for the rest of my life!”

I do my very best not to call him an idiot. Thankfully, I succeed.

But seriously, John is being ridiculous. My parents _adore_ him. They know the only reason I’m alive is because of his presence in my life. They know that he has humanized me and that he’s _mon point de repère_ when I’m socially lost.

I cast a quick look at John before I continue my explanation. John is looks miserable, staring at his feet like a school boy waiting to see the headmaster for something he’s done wrong. 

It dawns on me that I should probably reassure him out loud.

I reach over and lift his chin up. His blue eyes stare at mine solemnly. He is so handsome. I would much prefer kiss him than talk. But I suppose he needs to hear this.

“John, you’re an idiot,” I start. (Oh well, I tried. But what can I say, he is!) “I can assure you that my parents don’t hate you. In fact, the love you. They know everything you’ve done for me. They also know that you offered your life at the pool in exchange for mine. They are well aware that you knew nothing about my death and were horrified that I let you believe that you couldn’t talk me out of committing suicide in front of you. Also, I attract danger, John. They know that Mary would not have been placed in your path if it weren’t for me. They know that everything that followed was my fault. They know you’re… ”

_my best friend, my blogger, my mentor, my doctor, my conspirator, my teacher, my caretaker, my confidant, my lover._

The words get jammed in my trachea and I can’t talk anymore. I gather him in my arms and hide my face in his neck. When the tightness in my windpipe recedes, I finally finish my sentence. “You’re my everything.”

 

I feel John’s warm breath caressing my hair and I can tell that he’s smiling now. We pull apart and there is a suspicious moisture gathering on his lower eyelashes. He swallows. “Sherlock, you’re my everything too. I love you and--”

 

“I know,” I say. I give him a quick kiss in apology for interrupting. “But if we continue this absurd romantic nonsense, chances are we’ll never make it to my parents place tonight.” (Though, _that_ would be an excuse I’ve never used before). 

 

“Shall we?” I say, pointing to the door.

 

John picks up the bottle of wine again and nods. We go down the stairs and John opens the door for me. We step outside the cool evening air, he takes my hand, and leads me towards the black vehicle waiting to take us to my family home.

 

 

~~~The End~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Happy Christmas everyone!*
> 
> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> I would be eternally grateful for any comment you leave on this story. :D :D :D


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